The Legend of Lady Ilena

by Patricia Malone

  Ryamen was to return as soon as the gates opened at sunup, but the light in the doorway seems too bright for early morning.

  Finally I gather my things and move up the passage. When I reach the steps, I hesitate and listen hard for any sound that would mean there are people nearby. At last I step out into the tiny area under the capstone, pressing my body against one of the tall standing stones so I won’t be noticed. There is no sign of anyone around. Ryamen said no one would come near a burial mound unless the Druids held ceremonies.

  I have a clear view of Dun Alyn in the distance. The tall gates are open, and people come and go on foot, on horseback, and by cart. Figures on a hill beyond the fortress gather hay; smoke trails in the sky mark outlying farms. Insects drone around me.

  I squint up at the sun. Since I know that the fortress backs on the eastern sea, I can calculate the directions well enough. The sun has moved long past midday.

  Ryamen has not come.

  I STAY AGAINST THE TALL STONE, WATCHING UNTIL THE last traces of light disappear in the west. Could Ryamen have come while I slept? She would have awakened me. What can I do now? There is a glow in the sky from the direction of the fortress. Evening fires burn, warming families, cooking the last meal of the day.

  A wolf howls from woods nearby. I peer into the darkness of the barrow, but I can’t force myself to go back in. It is one thing to know skulls won’t hurt me but another to spend the night among them. I spread my vest for a seat beside the door and keep my sling and bag of stones handy in my lap.

  The wolf sounds again. This time an answer comes from somewhere on the other side of the earthen mound behind me.

  I sit there through the night while the moon rises and wolves howl. A great owl hunts beside the structure, and I hear a rush of wings. A small creature squeals as sharp talons carry it away. Something rustles in grass nearby. I make a slight sound, and the rustling stops.

  My tired mind still churns with questions. Why would anyone wish me harm? What did the Druid mean when he accused me of shapeshifting?

  I journeyed east to find the place I belong, but I have found a deeper mystery. My presence frightens people. Ogern roused that fear against me last night. Yet I do not think that he and Resad are afraid of me, though certainly they seek my death. Belert was kind, and he looked at me with sympathy. I cannot understand why he remained silent when I was sent to the grove.

  The wolves hunt farther and farther away. Their calls grow fainter as the moon sets, but I dare not sleep. When dawn begins to light the east, I face the question that is more painful than my fear of Ogern and Resad and worse than my loneliness in this barrow.

  Who is my mother?

  Grenna carried me, a few days old, into the Vale of Enfert. She nursed me; her milk came in full enough after a few days of rest and good food. I slept beside her in the bedplace till I was old enough to sleep alone. Moren spoke often of watching me learn to walk by hanging on to her tunic as she worked about our homestead.

  When the village children teased me about my language, my blue eyes and dark hair, my strange parents, I ran home weeping to Grenna. She would say, “Don’t cry, lass. It’s all right. You belong with us, and there is a place far away for the three of us. Someday we’ll go. Don’t mind the others; stay here with me awhile.”

  The first rays of morning sunlight catch the fortress and reflect off of something shiny—a watchman’s spear, perhaps—atop the wall. So too the morning sun would warm our farm in Enfert before it touched the valley below us. I long to be there again, going about morning chores with my parents, sharing my breakfast bread with Cryner, and greeting Rol in his snug corner of our barn.

  I rub at sudden tears and make myself concentrate on my situation now. It does no good to weep and long for childhood.

  As the sun rises higher, the fortress gates open for the day, and boys drive livestock out to pasture. I watch and pray for the sight of a gray-haired woman hurrying in my direction.

  A shaggy pony pulls a cart along the road that leads to the gate. The driver, cloaked against the morning chill, stands beside two tall baskets with something piled in them. Behind him two women with bundles atop their heads stride along at a brisk pace. Another cart just coming into view holds three children. Two adults walk beside the ox that draws it.

  A steady stream of people and carts moves through the entrances. More traffic stretches out along the road. This must be market day at Dun Alyn.

  I watch closely, but Ryamen does not come.

  Something has happened to her. There is no other explanation. She would not abandon me otherwise. I think of her standing over me in the Oak Grove with the torch smoking beside her, her tears when she heard of Moren’s death, and the warm hug she gave me in the barrow.

  Could she be— I interrupt the thought. It is crazy. Grenna is my mother, and I won’t think of anything else.

  But Ryamen took a great risk to save me, and now she is in danger herself. I owe her my life! I cannot walk away to safety and leave her.

  I tie my sling around my waist, pull on my vest, and pin the cloak close about me. I dare not be seen moving straight across the open meadow to the road, so I crouch low and hurry through the tall grass to the strip of woods and bramble bushes that borders the clearing. As I make my way through brush and trees to the road, I pick handfuls of late berries for breakfast.

  People are still traveling toward the fortress. Before I step out into view, I pull even more of my tangled hair down over my face and drag the hood of the gray cloak forward.

  I saunter along the edge of the road, munching the last of the berries and forcing myself to move slowly. A cart driver yells from behind, and I jump off onto the grass, where I stand and watch for a few minutes.

  A group of young women is coming, and I step out in front of them. Soon enough they catch up to me, and by the time we’ve reached the first ring of the fortress, I’m in their midst. They are chattering so intently about some bit of gossip involving a sister of a friend that I don’t think they even notice me. I look around at them as we walk. There are four, all about my age. None carries a bundle or basket, and I wonder what their business is at the fortress.

  The sentries at the first entrance are playing a game with dice and stone markers. They glance up from time to time but find nothing to worry them in our group. The second entrance has no guards, and we proceed directly to the tall gateway that leads into the compound. Here the guards are watching closely. I shrink back as far as I can into my hood and try to stay between two of my new companions.

  “Ho! You there.” The shout comes from the watchman on our right. I stop, terrified, but make no answer. I feel a rough hand on my shoulder, and a push sends me through the gate to sprawl on the dirt inside. “Not you. Think I’d want a dirty wench with hair in her face?”

  Peals of laughter greet this. I peer up through my curtain of hair as I scramble to my feet. The man who spoke has his arm around the woman who walked in beside me. She is laughing and pulling playfully at his beard. The other sentry is engaged in serious conversation with another of the young women.

  I can guess what business my companions are about. I scurry away, trying to look as dirty and undesirable as possible. I don’t care to be involved in those transactions.

  I find a dim corner near the stables where I can see most of the area inside the ramparts. It was dark when I was here before, and I had no time to get my bearings. Dun Alyn is even larger than I thought.

  A kitchen stretches along one side. Three hunting hounds wrestle over a bone near the door. Smoke rises from fires outside, and large ovens steam with morning baking. I’ll come back here later; food is usually handed out at a fortress’s kitchen door after the family and guests have eaten.

  A blacksmith’s forge and other work areas are near the stable. Family houses are grouped throughout the compound. I count twenty-three small homes from where I am standing, and there are more behind the stables. Well over two hundred people must live inside these
walls.

  The wide avenue leading to the Great Hall is packed with carts and baskets of produce. Women sit on low stools with woven cloth or skeins of wool and linen yarn spread out around them. Several crates of chickens add commotion and stray feathers. A metalworker unloads a display from his cart onto a bench. An old woman walks through the press of people, holding up a stoppered gourd container and saying something I can’t hear.

  I would like to stroll about and look at the things for sale, but I have more important business. The sound of horses from the stables draws me.

  I move to the back of a barn and peer in the door. Cormec would not have had time to get Rol to Dun Dreug. My horse must be in one of these barns. I can see no one inside. Perhaps I could …

  Suddenly someone behind me speaks. “What’s this?”

  I turn to find a stable boy staring at me. His grin promises no good. I try a weak, slurred whine. “Is this where they keep the ’orses, sir?”

  He looks pleased at the “sir.” “Aye. And what you be wanting with the horses, girl?”

  “Me brother promised me we’d see the big ’orses, but ’e’s off with a lass.”

  This earns me a sly look. “I could show you the horses. And you’d be grateful, I reckon.”

  I’m not pleased with the turn the conversation is taking. “I don’t know what you mean, sir. Are there really ’orses ’ere?”

  He is beaming now. “Sure, lass. You come with me.” He reaches for my arm. I try to shrug away. “Aw, now. I’ll just lead you. It’s a bit dark and hard to get around in there.”

  I pull my arm back and hug the cloak close.

  His face hardens. “Let’s see what’s under that cloak. Be you worth bothering with?” He grabs a handful of gray wool and pulls.

  I jerk loose and aim a hard kick. He doubles over and howls.

  I back away quickly and scream, “Don’t touch me. Me brother told me not to let anyone touch me. I’ll tell ‘im an’ ’e’ll be after you, ’e will.” I turn and race back into the crowd in front of the stables.

  The scent of food is stronger now. I inhale deeply. Berries are nourishing but not very filling. I would like a real meal. I move on toward the Great Hall with a few backward glances to be sure the stable boy is not following me. There is no sign of Ryamen in the crowd.

  I wish I could throw back the cloak hood so I could see better, but I don’t know who might recognize me. I stop to examine cloth spread out on the ground. The work is fine, with close, even weaving and skillful use of blue woad dye. I compliment the woman who sits beside it.

  “Lovely work, lady.”

  She beams and smooths the piece with hands twisted from rheumatism. I think of the pain this piece of fabric has cost her.

  A metalworker shows gold bracelets and circlets. I wonder how many can afford his wares. A young man is bargaining for a twisted-wire headpiece. I listen as the price is agreed on.

  “A bag of oats from this harvest and two chickens, then. Though it’s dear enough.”

  “A loss to me! How I’ll make a living giving things away like this, I don’t know.”

  “I’ll get your oats and the fowl. Don’t sell it to another, now.”

  “Aye, and I’d like to. Chickens are a nuisance. Mind you tie them well.”

  “And using my own thong, I suppose?”

  “For the price I’m giving you, a bundle of thongs! And why you folk don’t use coin, I don’t know.”

  “It’s mostly been melted down by metalworkers for overpriced jewelry.” The buyer hurries away to get his part of the trade. Both men look pleased enough despite their complaints.

  I can see where Moren came by the things he brought home from his trips. Did he walk through this same market disguised from those who would know him, or did Ryamen or someone else purchase what he wanted and take it out to him?

  People are gathering by the kitchen door. As I move closer, I see the stable boy I met earlier, and I hurry away before he can see me. Back in the market area the crowd has begun to thin. I feel conspicuous now and look for a place to get out of sight while I decide where to look for Ryamen.

  A clump of oaks stands against the ramparts and near a cluster of family houses. I weave my way between a cart of crated chickens and a woodworker’s stack of stools and head across open ground toward the trees. This must be the main roadway, as it is rutted from cart and chariot wheels and strewn with fresh manure. I keep a close eye on where I step and so don’t see the child in front of me until I bump into his back.

  “Why don’t you watch where you’re going, wench?” It is not a child’s voice. He turns, and I see a man’s face, rough and bearded. I recover my balance and stare at him. He is no taller than a boy of eight or nine summers, but his head is large, almost normal adult size. I can’t see his legs under the cloak he holds around himself, but I guess that they are short like his arms. He wears wide gold bracelets above child-size hands. An enameled brooch closes the cloak.

  It is his face that holds my attention. His forehead is large and flat, with coarse, dark hair bushing up above it. His ears are little, and his thick neck goes straight down from his head without any curve at all. Deep folds around his eye sockets almost hide his eyes.

  “Look at me, then. Look your fill. Stupid girl. Have you no manners?” He turns and stomps away.

  I cringe at the anger in his voice. I’ve been staring rudely. I’ve never seen a dwarf before, though I’ve heard about them often. I call after him, “I’m sorry, sir. I was watching where I walked and did not see you.”

  He stops at my words and whirls around. His eyes are dark, and they fix on my face with a frightening intensity. I hold my breath as he moves back to stand close to me. I realize that I forgot my disguise and spoke without the whine.

  He reaches up with both hands and parts my hair so he can see my face. I want to run away, but I am frozen to the spot. The noise of the market dims in my ears, and I cannot measure the time we two spend, silent and unmoving, staring at each other.

  When he speaks, the anger is gone from his voice. “They told me true. You could be the lady herself.”

  I gulp and swallow down the dryness in my throat. “Which lady, sir? Who do people mistake me for?”

  He looks past me, and I hear horses bearing down on us. He drops my hair over my face and growls, “Don’t turn around.”

  The voice behind me is familiar. “Well, Spusscio, what do you have? A wench, it seems.” Resad’s laugh mingles with another man’s.

  “Aye,” the dwarf says, “if we can agree on a price.”

  “She can’t be worth much. I saw her come in with the others, and the worst of the lot, she looks.”

  “Well, she values herself highly enough.” Spusscio has taken hold of my arm. I’m surprised at the strength in the little hand.

  “Here. I’m glad to help out in a good cause.” Two coins fall into the dirt at our feet.

  “Thank you, Resad. Your generosity is exceeded only by your kind heart.” There is a bitter edge to my companion’s voice. He jerks me to his side and, at the same time, turns me so that my face is away from the horsemen as they ride by. Their laughter mixes with the dirt their horses churn up.

  The dwarf doesn’t release my arm until he has tugged me across the roadway to the cluster of oaks. Once we are inside their shelter, he lets me go. I look around for someplace to get away from him.

  “Oh, lass, I won’t hurt you. I apologize for the rough words, but that’s what Resad understands.” His voice is courteous, and I sense a genuine warmth.

  “What do you plan to do with me?”

  He laughs. “If you’re the fighter I heard you were, I probably couldn’t do anything with you. With your permission, I’d like to take you to Belert. He will be relieved to see that you are well.”

  I think back to the Great Hall, to Belert’s face when he spoke with me, to his expression when Ogern sent me to the Oak Grove. If I am to find Ryamen, I need help, and I cannot stay out here where e
veryone can see me. “Gladly,” I say.

  Spusscio sets a quick pace across the compound to one of the dwelling places behind the Great Hall. When we enter the dim interior, I find that it is larger than it looked from across the grounds. We move to a wooden door set in a wicker partition. I can see four other doors around the central hearth.

  Spusscio points to the door to our right. “That is the chief’s chamber. No one lives in this house now except the two of us.” He shoves the door in front of me open. “You can stay in here.”

  I step inside as he opens shutters to let daylight in. The room is luxurious. It is almost as large as our entire house in the West. The sleeping ledge is wide, with a thick layer of soft skins over the straw. There is a lovely carved larchwood box under the window and other boxes and baskets on shelves along one side of the space. Woven hangings cover the wicker on two walls. The room has its own small hearth in the center, and a table with two benches is nearby. A gaming board with stone pieces sits on the table, waiting, it seems, for the room’s occupant to return.

  Spusscio watches me with a curious look. “Do you like this room?” he asks.

  “It is lovely. I’ve never been in such a fine place.” I remove Ryamen’s cloak and lay it on the bed. I would like to lie down on those soft skins and sleep the rest of the day away. “But this is someone else’s room. Is it all right for me to be here?”

  “She doesn’t need it now.” His voice is sad.

  I remember the story of Cara and Miquain. “Surely I shouldn’t be in here.”

  “It is safe for you.”

  “Will the chief mind?”

  “No, he’ll understand why I’ve put you here. I’ll come for you when he returns from dinner.”

  “Is there …” I hesitate. It is rude for a guest to ask for things, I know. And I have no idea what my status is. I may be a prisoner here. Still, the mention of dinner brings sharp hunger pangs. “Might I have something to eat?”